


Blood Heat

by afterandalasia



Category: Pocahontas (1995)
Genre: Angst, Community: dark_bingo, Community: disney_kink, Depression, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Infection, M/M, Secret Relationship, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 20:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6534997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easy enough to tell someone you won't cry at their funeral, but those promises prove hard to keep when you find yourself standing beside their coffin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Heat

**Author's Note:**

> For the [anon prompt](http://disney-kink.livejournal.com/4400.html?thread=3043888#t3043888) at Disney Kink. Also a fill for the Dark Bingo square septicaemia/blood poisoning.
> 
> AU - Thomas and Kocoum were in a secret relationship. Thomas was not the one who shot Kocoum.

_It's easy enough to tell someone you won't cry at their funeral, but those promises prove hard to keep when you find yourself standing beside their coffin._  
  
He thinks of the funerals back in England that he had attended. The ringing of the church bells, the smell of rosemary and rain, the body in its wooden coffin draped in a cross of linen. He thinks of the way that people stood, stiff and silent, as the coffin was lowered into the ground and covered over with the thick red earth of his hometown.  
  
Here there is a hole in the ground, yes, but merely a pallet of sticks beneath it, and Kocoum is wrapped in furs and skins as if to keep him warm whilst he sleeps. His body has been painted, his pendants round his neck, and were it not for the greyish hue beneath his skin, Thomas could almost believe that he was simply asleep.  
  
Oh, how he wants to believe.  
  
 _"I promise," he whispers, Kocoum's hand cradled in his. There had been so much strength there, so much warmth, but now the great powerful hand feels light in his, and it trembles slightly. How can he be so cold? So cold, when Thomas has felt their bodies warm together so many times, keeping out the chill of the nights?_  
  
He wishes that he could stand at the graveside with the others, but Pocahontas has said that it would not be possible. So he must hide within the trees, and watch from afar, and feel the tears running down his face though he tries not to give sound to them. The first wailing goes up from the women with their faces painted black, and he feels a tremor run through him.  
  
 _He cannot enter the village; it would be too obvious. He and Kocoum meet in the woods, for stolen words and caresses and kisses, and promises that someday they will find a way out of this war between their peoples. For now, they can only cross the great wooden palisades of the places that are supposed to be their homes, knowing that their only home is in each other._  
  
When he returns to the camp, the others can see that there is something wrong, but somehow none of them dare to approach him. Quiet Thomas, sweet Thomas, gentle Thomas, goes into his tent and knows that they can hear the smashing of the pot within, though they cannot see the blood that rises from the cut in his hand.  
  
It is only John that dares to come in, concern in his handsome face. He doesn’t say anything at first, as he takes the sherds of pottery from Thomas’s hand, splashes some water over the wound, and winds cloth around it.  
  
 _If it had been a bullet to the heart, perhaps that would be easier. A warrior’s death. Kocoum was alrways a warrior, even if he had been so gentle in his touches. Taciturn, a man of few words but great intensity; Thomas had felt so safe within those walls of protectiveness. But a death on the field of battle, however hollow Thomas thought glory ever was in death, would have been... somewhere closer to right than this. At least it would have been brief, and intense, and everything that Kocoum was as well.  
  
Yes, perhaps a bullet would be easier than the poisoned blood which had claimed him._  
  
“You’ve been out beyond the camp,” says John Smith, his voice quiet now. Thomas finds it strange that he was always the closest to understand.  
  
“The natives are holding another funeral,” Thomas replies, and he is surprised that he can find a voice at all. Even so, it comes out a whisper.  
  
John doesn’t know everything, but he knows enough. He doesn’t say anything more after that.  
  
 _A mere graze on the skin. It should have been nothing, should have healed over in no time. But Thomas can remember the first time that he saw the greenish hue that the scab had taken, and felt a tightness of fear in his throat, though even he had pretended that it was nothing.  
  
Kocoum’s skin had always felt hot against his; he had tried to pretend that it was nothing more than that which he felt when the man’s flesh grew almost burning to the touch. He pretends that the pounding heart was nothing to fear, as they lie together that one last night._  
  
It had been fast, too fast, and yet it had tarried too long. He had lain through the night in Kocoum’s arms, then been roused at dawn as the warrior struggled to breathe. Now Thomas cannot hold back the sobs, and they rip through him in sharp storm-waves as he bows his head, feels John’s arm resting awkwardly across his shoulders, and feels grief pulse through him over and over again.  
  
 _”Promise me,” Kocoum whispers, and Thomas wants to hush him but cannot bring himself to answer negatively. “Promise me you will not cry.”  
  
Two weeks since the graze of the bullet. For months they have stolen time together, and it feels so roughly taken from them.  
  
“Promise me.”_  
  
He cannot tell John of the promise. He feels sure that John would not understand, cannot know what it is to have had everything taken away, and for the one promise you have made – the one thing that could have been as you both intended – to be broken by your own trembling hand.  
  
It should have been the one thing that they had done perfectly. And each tear on his cheek feels like a betrayal.  
  
 _He can hear voices outside the tent. The medicine man is coming, to see what can be done to draw the fire from the inflamed skin that now covers Kocoum’s shoulder, creeping down onto his chest in red tendrils. Even he knows that nothing can be done; he imagines that Kocoum has seen such wounds before, and knows also._  
  
He wants to lie, to say that Kocoum will heal, but this is not the time to lie. Their last words should not be lies, and as he kisses the man’s burning brows he forces himself to reply.  
  
”I promise.”  
  
He looks at the blood seeping through the cloth on his hand. The wound feels curiously numb, just faintly warm, as if he has held something hot for almost too long. He wonders whether this was how the bullet wound on Kocoum’s shoulder had felt at first.  
  
He wonders how it is that his heart can feel just the same.


End file.
